[align=left]I was scribbling on a paper the other day. My pen insisted to write theses words down They are not poetry, nor prose, but they are words of the heart A moaning heart over the soul’s sill Heart just moans and sorrows just bread Loneliness has enslaved me and sobbing has become my daily feed Tears, sadness and grief are my only mates indeed I can’t grasp the joy, and the swift happiness I get is a dead seed Oh! God, I can’t stop my heart bleeding, and my land being hijacked by the monsters of greed Why should I go through all this?, I have never committed an awful deed But I will still write and write in my sadness ink, though I know no one will ever read It seems nobody understands, as if my words are like a thread goinig through an unpierced bread How can I forget the loss??, How can I rinse the memories ?? though, I never drink mead I believe, I will just bleed and bleed, and no one whatsoever would pay a head ... .. .